


The game we play.

by AnOakTree



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Life Drawing, M/M, Nudity, Touch-Starved, canon-typical warnings apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 18:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15588414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOakTree/pseuds/AnOakTree
Summary: Damen and Laurent played a game against each other, they waltzed and danced and fenced around each other. There was no mention of dating or loving each other, no plans or titles or whispered words. When they met it was as natural as two friends’ meeting, yet it was obvious to each other that they were not friends....





	The game we play.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this needs a bit of work but it was distracting me from my studies so here it is.  
> Let me know what you think and if I missed anything I should have tagged.  
> Thanks for reading and I love you all.

The robe pressed against his naked skin did nothing to stave off the cold wind of the winter’s night. As he pulled the robe tight and pushed down his underwear he wondered if it was too late to leave. His skin was tense and raised in Goosebumps, yet in the confined space of his makeshift change room, the cold was ignored for all he could think of was Auguste.

_Auguste, Auguste, Auguste. What would you think of me now?_

His underwear sat in a sad rolled up pile at his bare feet. With disgust, he picked them up and shoved them into his bag, thinking about how in a couple of hours he would have to unroll them and step back into used underwear.

“I’ve done worse,” Laurent said to himself.

Pulling his phone from his bag, he read through the instructions again, his mouth dry thinking about what he was doing. The resolve he had felt when replying to the ad had left him, leaving instead what he really was.

It was nothing really, just a way to get some money.

The sharp rap of knuckles against the old wood of the cupboard startled him into almost dropping his phone.

“We’re about to get started,” said a man he had met only thirty minutes prior.

“No worries,” said Laurent, shoving his phone back into his bag.

 _‘This is nothing,”_ he thought to himself.

Stepping out of the cupboard, he followed the person he had just met through the building with the cold surrounding him. He clutched tighter at his robe, somehow hoping to hide how exposed he was beneath it. It was not long, barely seconds, before he was led into a room with a group of people. All of them were sitting up straight and observant at high tables, their instruments of choice set before them.

Despite the anxiety that clung in his chest and his throat, he managed to notice that the room was warmer than the rest of the building, and that there was a circle of heaters surrounding the room.

“Use any props you want,” said the person, before walking away, leaving him alone on the outskirts of a circle of people. He looked around, watching for lecherous eyes, looking for anything deviant, but found nothing.

“Starting in one minute,” the person said, their voice loud and booming, carrying their voice to the two other rooms that held other people. His heart started to beat in his chest so rabidly he felt as if the pulse of his blood was visible to all who cared to look. He felt that despite his ribcage, his heart pressed against the skin of his chest, forcing it out and showing the impression of the muscle that kept him alive.

“I’ve done worse,” Laurent said to himself with a whisper.

It was nothing, in the end, to let the robe fall away and to step naked into the circle of onlookers. There was a moment of silence, the people not expecting what they saw, and then the voice boomed out again.

“Let’s begin.”

…

“Models needed.

Non-for-profit life drawing classes. Models needed of any age, race, gender or body type. Everyone welcome. Models paid percentage of attendance fee, pay ranges anywhere from $20 to $100 depending on turn out. Remaining money used for art supplies for local state school.”

…

It all came back to a man. One man named, Damianos Theomedes Pompilius Vassilios, a man he should never have met.

They should not have met in the way people meet by coincidence, they did not collide whilst grocery shopping, and pick up their scattered purchases whilst staring into each other’s eyes. Nor did they meet in the way that they were thrust together to focus on a conjoined goal. Yet they met through friends, the few Laurent had, and they should not have met. Because if they had not, Laurent would have continued his meagre existence, doing nothing more than he had ever done to survive in the world.

“He’s very attractive,” Vannes had said between puffs of her cigarette.

“I’m sure it’s all he has going for him,” Laurent said in reply.

Vannes had laughed and offered him a smoke.

Damianos was always at a distance at first. He was just someone there that knew the same people that Laurent did but in a removed way. They were friends of friends of friends, not completely connected. Yet from that first meeting, Damianos had moved further into the little circle of friends Laurent kept close.

Laurent thought of it like some large inbreed family. He was friends with Vannes who knew Jord, and Jord was friends with Lazar, who had started to date Pallas, who was friends with Nikandros, who was best friends with Damianos. Somehow, Laurent found himself in a circle of people who quickly became friends while he sat on the outer fringes, wondering what had happened and how he had ended up in this large group of people.

By the time Damianos spoke to him for the first time it was almost like they already knew each other. Because everyone talked, and he felt like he already knew all the important information about Damianos before he even met him.

“Nik, and Pallas, call him Damen,” Vannes said at one party, her body loose and swaying from the vodka bottle clutched in her hand. “He’s just come out of a long-term relationship, apparently walked in on his GF and brother doing the dirty.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he had said, but from that point on he could only think of Damianos as Damen, which came to be his downfall.

When Damianos had first talked to him, Laurent had called him Damen, and that somehow made Damen more open and happier to talk to him.

“Damianos, makes me feel like I’m getting into trouble, like my mum found out I lied to her or something.”

“And are you a liar?” Laurent said, sipping from the one drink he had been cradling for more than an hour.

“Not anymore,” he said, grabbing the bottle of vodka from Vannes as she spilled it down her front. “My mother set me straight. The worst thing you could do to my mother was lie to her.”

“Lying is the worst thing you can do to anyone,” Laurent had said before grabbing Vannes and sitting her down before she could fall down.

They spoke no more that night, but ever since Damen had more and more of a presence in his life.

It started with simple conversation when their group of friends met, Laurent slowly moving from the outskirts into the inner circle. There was snatched pieces of conversation while they slowly learned more about each other. They shared a number of things in common, such as they both had a brother almost ten years older, yet Damen’s was still alive and causing him problems. They had both lost their mother at a young age, but Laurent had a few more years before having to say goodbye. They had both been betrayed by family however, whilst Damen was open with what had happened to him, Laurent kept his secrets close.

The simple free way they knew each other changed one day when Laurent was walking through the city, scouring bookstores and trying to find an affordable copy of a textbook he needed next semester. He had not been taking stock of his surroundings, his mind focused on other things, like the amount of money he had and how he was going to get through to his next pay day. It should have shocked him when someone reached out and placed their hand gently on his shoulder. Yet somehow, he knew there was no harm, and when he turned he saw the smiling, greeting face of Damen he didn't know what to feel.

The hand slipped from his shoulder and something happened then that Laurent had not expected. He yearned for the hand to return for he had not felt anything so warm touch him for years. Damen invited him to lunch, and Laurent accepted only because that simple gesture made him realised how completely touch starved he was. He accepted the invitation with one clear thought in his mind.

 _'Please,'_ he thought, _'Please, touch me again. Anything just touch me.'_

When they parted ways that day, it was with each other’s phones numbers and a promise to meet again. Laurent abandoned his book search and instead went straight home, trying not to cry. He lay in bed, reliving the feeling of a warm hand gentle cupping his shoulder. He fell asleep, wondering what it would feel like to have his entire body encompassed by Damen’s warmth.

…

“First pose!” the man (Herode?) shouted and Laurent haphazardly struck a random pose, one hand on his hip, the other raised in the air, his face tilted upwards.

After the shout, music started up and Laurent recognised the piece, Passacaglia in G minor, the orchestral version. Art students sitting around a nude model whilst listening to classical music, it was such a cliché’ that Laurent had to restrain the urge to laugh. The fear he felt before was gone, replaced by the giddy desire to laugh hysterically at the sheer ridiculousness of what he was doing.

Before he could think too hard there was the shout for a second pose. Not knowing what else to do, Laurent shuffled around, facing a different direction and twisted his body, arms out at either side, his head bent down this time, his hair falling into his eyes.

The skin on his back pulled and stretched but not too unpleasantly. He took note of it however and reminded himself not to push himself too far.

The instructions he had received via text had been thus:

There would be ten, one-minute warm up poses. Then two five-minute poses and one more ten-minute pose. After that he would change rooms with another model. There he would do another ten-minute pose and then a twenty-minute pose. Then there was a break. After that he would change rooms with a different model, being greeted yet again with another group of people. In the final room he would do one last forty-five-minute pose and then he would be paid, and he would leave.

Simple enough, he thought as he changed into his third pose. This time arching backwards and resting one hand on his calf with the other arm stretched out, as if to reach for something. This time it was the skin of his ribs that stretched and pulled, reminding him after all these years that he was not quite as flexible as he once was. Still he pushed on and waited for the next call.

The humour he felt was replaced again, this time by concentration.

By the time he reached the end of his first ten-minute pose, he was no longer thinking about his nakedness. He was lost in the music and the poses, thinking instead about what he could do next, and how long he could hold it for. He was no longer scared because when his eyes did stray across the class, what he found was a group of people, focused not on the desire or disgust of his body, but focused on the line and shape of it. He was nothing more than a pile of complex shapes to them, just something to learn from.

And it was a comfort to him.

…

“Classical music?” Damen had said, trying not to scoff.

“And what do you listen to? Dubstep?”

“Only late at night when I’ve got a deadline to meet. It’s so offensive to the ears that I have no choice but to stay awake.”

“I can’t believe you just admitted to listening to dubstep.”

“It gets worse.”

“I can’t imagine how it could get any worse than that?” Laurent had said, taking a sip from his tea.

“It’s the Zelda remix dubstep.”

Laurent choked on his tea and could not help the laughter that escaped. It was becoming easier to laugh. He could always fake a smile, and smile for real around Vannes, but he could laugh with Damen and it warmed him. Laughter felt good when it was with Damen.

“Yeah, yeah, ha ha, back to the classical music.” Damen had said, handing him a napkin.

“What about it?” Laurent had said, dabbing at the spilt tea running down his neck.

“How’d you get into it? You never mentioned playing any instruments.”

Laurent thought about the time when he was driving, his eyes hot with tears he refused to shed. He thought about how he was speeding, his old car pushed to its limits as he wove between traffic, horns blaring at him. He thought about how he just wanted everything to shut up.

He had smashed his fist into the radio, yelling at it to shut up, his voice harsh and burning with every word he screamed out. Every station was the same, people talking and talking and talking and he could not handle one more fake laugh.

He thought about how he smashed his fist against the radio and had thought about driving into the next pole he saw. When his hand fell from the radio, music filled the car at last, and the music was sharp and loud, it was not angry, but purposeful. The sound of violins and cellos filled his ears, followed by the deep rumble of percussion, timpani’s, but he did not know the name at the time.

He stopped smashing the radio, he slowed down and pulled over. And with the sharp sound of strings swelling into a thunderous sound, he finally put his head down and let himself cry.

“I wouldn’t say I’m an expert. I barely know the names of the songs, I just like the music, it’s calming.”

“Hmm,” was all Damen had said, but that had been enough.

He did not probe or make fun of him, he had just accepted it and moved on.

…

For the twenty-minute pose, Laurent had chosen to kneel on the cold hard floor, arching back with one hand holding him up. He wrapped his other arm around himself, his hand resting on his hip. He let his head drop down, resting against his chest with his hair covering his face.

The longer pose was harder, and he reminded himself that he would have to be more careful when picking for his forty-five-minute pose. His arm shook with the weight of holding himself up. Whilst he was not weak by any means, being somewhat flexible and capable of push ups was different to holding himself up on one arm for twenty minutes. His flesh tingled and went numb, only to come alive again and remind him of the strain. His knees similarly went dead from the hard floor before reigniting in pain and cold, before they started to throb and feel hot before turning numb again.

When the pose was called to an end, he felt as though he was creaking as he pushed himself up. The heaters were still on, but a chill still caught him as he picked up his robe and pulled it around himself. The artists filed out of the room, leaving their books and easels behind. Some had chosen to cover their works, whilst others left them open.

Curious, Laurent pulled his robe tight and stepped out of his circle and over to the desks. He did not leaf through the pages but accepted what was open for him to see. His naked body, unmistakable to him, was there on page after page. Some were full bodied drawings of him, so detailed he could not comprehend how it had been done in only twenty minutes. Moving over the displayed images he found that others had focused intently on one part of his body, his face, his hands, his feet, his back, all there and drawn over and over again.

Other people had stepped away from pencil and used charcoal instead, others used pens in various shades of grey, whilst one person used water colour, capturing the colour of his hair so perfectly Laurent almost reached out to stroke it.

Moving around the room, he moved his focus on to those who had chosen to draw his whole body, ignoring those that focused on his hands or his face. He wanted to know if these people could create the marks on his body, if they would shy away from them or draw them in detail. There were a few that had decided to draw around his scars, ignoring them and drawing steady flat lines instead. But most had risen to the challenge.

He was conscious of the pull of his scars as he moved around the room as old as they were. Those who did draw the patch work of his scars seemed to have trouble. He doubted anyone had seen such a thing before, and it showed. The marks on his body did not look right on the pages, the lines too quick and sever or too shaded to show the truth.

One person though, had managed to capture them near perfectly. He stopped and paused the longest over them and let his hand hover about the page, daring to touch them. He wondered that if he touched the detailed page, would he feel the same gnarl of smooth burned flesh he felt when he touched his own body?

Letting his fingers fall, all he felt was the smooth touch of cool paper.

…

At fifteen, when he was all used up and turned away, Laurent found sleeping too difficult and would lay awake at night. Most nights when he rolled around his empty bed on too cool sheets, he would wait until the quietest depths of the night before leaving the bed and locking himself in the bathroom.

He would undress and stand naked in front of the full-length mirror, taking in his form. He would count the scars on his body and in his mind catalogue when and where they had happened. Starting from the earliest and the most faded he would map them out and say where and when they happened.

There were scars on his knees, multiple knots of scar tissue from tumbling over as a child and falling from a bike he could not ride and had not wanted. His elbows looked the same for similar reasons. On his lip there was a faded scar only visible when the skin was pressed wide, revealing the time Auguste had let him go when swigging a six-year-old Laurent in a circle.

When he was eight, Laurent had been running with his arms out stretched, only to run his hand through a rose bush and have a thorn cut him from his index finger to the middle of his palm.

Also, at age eight he received another scar from Auguste across the top of his knuckles when Auguste had smacked a metal ruler at his hand as Laurent tried to unplug his computer. He would almost laugh at the memory of a seventeen-year-old Auguste freaking out over the blood, because seconds later Laurent had hurled a magic eight ball at his face, effectively taking the tip off of Auguste’s foremost tooth.

Growing through the years, Laurent mapped out the scars of his childhood, all of them simple scars that most children acquire. At age twelve, his scars turned from simple faded scars to large patches of burned skin. He would trace his fingers along the edge of his scars, feeling the difference between unblemished skin and the unnatural smoothness of still pink burn scars.

His skin would pull taunt as he reached across his back, feeling as much as he could of the edges. The largest scar wrapped across his back from his right shoulder all the way to his ribs on his left side. There were patches of burns on his chest, his calves and his arms.

Pushing his fingers into his hair, he could feel the long line of a straight clean cut that started just above his right ear and stretch back thickly for two inches before tempering off. His fingers would then drift to his right shoulder and along his chest, feeling the scar of the seatbelt that had cut into his skin. Of all his scars, it was the one most faded, but Laurent could still feel it.

His exploration would stop there, because no other scars that came after mattered, not the scars on his wrist or his thighs, nor the one at the corner of his lip. Instead he looked in the mirror and wondered what other scars he had that he could not see.

He wondered what the scars on his stomach looked like, and imagined they were vein like as stretch marks were. The scars on his lungs were long, like the scratching of finger nails, trailing down his organs and leaving their marks. His intestines were knotted and kinked like a left-over old hose that had been left wrongly coiled in the hot sun for too long. There were scratches on his mind as well. The deep grooves of sharpened claws that had sunk into his mind, leaving valleys of bleeding pulsing flesh as they went.

Only his heart remained free of scars, because the wound was still fresh. He would picture it as a smooth deep puncture, the flesh in the middle a dark and deep red with blood leaking from it steadily. He could feel the coursing red blood as he lay his hand over his heart, the warmth of it reminding him not that he still lived, but that he still bled.

When he was done feeling the pulsing of fresh blood on his hands, he would begin again, counting the scars on his body until the light of the sun cut through and dimmed the fluorescents lights.

…

It was strange being naked in a room filled with fully dressed people, even though two other models moved around him. One of the models was a petite female also in a robe with closely cropped hair and a number of piercings. The other model was a slightly older female with a rockabilly haircut who seemed to have no problem with wading completely naked through the group of people to get herself a cup of tea.

Everyone was pressed into a small kitchen, bustling against each other and making themselves cups of tea and coffee. In the middle of the room was a table that had an assortment of biscuits, pastries, small quiches and scones. A number of them were crumpled on top of grease stained bags, and Laurent wondered how many of these treats had been left overs taken by the student artists from their place of work.

Someone had placed a packet of family assorted creams on the table and Laurent managed to nab himself a Monte Carlo and a shortbread cream from the fast disappearing packet. He shoved them into the pocket of his bathrobe before pilfering a date scone. Pushing through the crowd of people he made himself a cup of tea in a worn, slightly stained mug before moving out of the building and into the cool night air.

There were few other people outside the building, some smoking, others talking with each other whilst cradling steaming cups. Laurent moved away from them and found a quiet place to sit with his back leaning against the trunk of a large tree. The night was cool and when he sat the cold dew from the grass seeped into his robe and pressed cold against his skin.

His hands shook slightly as he brought the mug to his lips and sipped cheap tea with too much milk. The warmth of the tea steeped through his body and the shivers subsided enough for him to reach into his pocket and pull out his shortbread cream.

Dipping the biscuit into his tea, he let it soak just the right amount of time before bringing up the soaked crumbling biscuit and crushing it into his mouth. A deeper warmth spread through him as he chewed the sweet morsel before washing it down with a gulp of tea.

He had to laugh when he finished his biscuits and his tea. He was naked beneath a thin bathrobe under the night sky, but he felt as light and as free as a feather in the wind.

…

Damen and Laurent played a game against each other, they waltzed and danced and fenced around each other. There was no mention of dating or loving each other, no plans or titles or whispered words. When they met it was as natural as two friends’ meeting, yet it was obvious to each other that they were not friends.

They both had a hunger for each other in a way that they both knew about but, neither acted upon. They would meet at cafes and restaurants, drinking coffee and eating decadent food. They saw each other in worn out clothing, freshly woken and worn out so late in the dark that they would welcome the first glints of sunlight together. They would chase each other through the night and laugh and play games with each other, yet neither spoke of what they wanted to be to each other.

When the friends group met up, they would seek each other out as soon as possible, leaving the others behind so as to chase each other again. They would lay in darkened rooms, telling each other ghost stories and faded memories. They would lay in the grass and spy single stars through the light thick sky of the city. When their friends teased them, calling them a couple, they pushed it away, the both of them, leaving their friends with confused and saddened faces.

One night, Vannes had thrown a plastic cup at him, the top of it grazing his head as he ducked. She did not bring it up the next time they met, nor did Laurent mention the tear tracks on her face as she had turned away.

The conversation that would never happen should have festered and eroded at their friendship. Instead the next time they met, Vannes had given him a strained smile, the meaning of it not missed. Laurent offered a half smile in return and Vannes had laughed, her voice choked in tears that were never shed. She had not pushed him that day, or any day since. Instead she tried dropping hints and asking about Damen, and when all she received were blunted answers she rolled her eyes but let things be.

Laurent knew he should have told her, he knew by the way that she looked at him that she knew in her own way. Yet, he liked that about his friendship with her, she knew but she did not push. She knew to let things be, she waited for him, and even though it frustrated her and that the plastic cup was not the first time she had thrown something at him, he let things be too.

Most of the time she was exactly what he needed in his life from the first moment she had forced friendship. Like their friend’s group, they met had met in a roundabout way. Her mother had dealings with someone else’s parents who had dealings with Laurent’s uncle. They had met at a networking party. The two of them were thrown together because they were the same age and therefore, in their guardian’s eyes, must get along.

Vannes had forced friendship because at the time she was loud and at the time Laurent was too shell shocked to bite back. She was a constant presence and eventually he just accepted her. The first time he thought of her as a friend was when they were sixteen. Vannes was far too drunk for a sixteen-year-old and Laurent was only at the party, so he could get out of the house. She had sat next to him, passed him a cup which held god only knew what and said, ‘I’m on your side, those fucks, I’m on your side.’

Laurent was sure there was much of the message that was missing in context, but the point was, she was there for him and backed him, no matter how frustrating and avoidant he was. She was on his side, even though most of what they shared was unspoken.

There was one moment, at another party, when Vannes had ripped a three-inch leather bracelet from her arm and stroked the scars on her skin. Laurent had not said a word and instead pulled back the material of his long sleeve shirt and had done the same to his own wrist.

“Fuck the rich,” she said, hoisting her cup in a salute.

“Eloquently said,” he had said, clinking his own cup to hers.

It had been the week before graduation, and they were both heading to the same university. Vannes to study visual art because _‘It’ll piss of my parents and it’s the only release I have but I’ll probably end up a teacher to harvest my brood of angsty teens’_ , Laurent was headed for a degree in Psychology, for reasons understood but left unquestioned.

Their friendship had remained despite their divergence on interests and their conflicting schedules.

If there was one person, Laurent could have talked about Damen with it was her. Yet he could not bring himself to talk about something that he did not understand himself. The unspoken conversation did not fester, but instead hung in the air like a blunted guillotine. It was something that was still deadly, but all the more painful if dropped at the wrong time and place.

...

Laurent felt much more confident and content when he headed back into the heated building after the break. His belly was warm with hot tea and biscuits, but the tips of his fingers and toes were still cold and numb from the night air. He tried not to think about how other parts of his body were affected by the cold. He knew the artists would not care, so he tried not to care himself.

He made his way into the third room, faced once again with a different group of people, most of which were focused on getting their equipment ready instead of on him, standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a robe.

Since it was to be a forty-five-minute pose, he pulled a spare stool up to the middle of the room, preferring to be sitting. Yet when the call came from another room to begin, he threw off his robe and positioned himself into a pose that was not exactly easy to hold.

He was sitting down yes, but whilst his left leg was propped on the stool, his right was thrust out, his toes pointed. His right hand was resting on the stool so that he could balance as he arched his back and let his head fall back with his eyes closed. His let his left hand sit on his neck, almost in a delicate caress but not quite so.

He did not realise it at the time, but seconds after he struck the pose he realised what he was doing. It was a purposefully submissive and almost erotic pose, a final test for himself and those around him. He heard the gentle hush as those unfamiliar with the marks of his body took sight of him, but then the scratching of pencils started up and Herode called the time from another room. The music started up again and once again Laurent recognised the piece. It was Chopin this time, his Nocturne, although Laurent was not sure he had placed it completely, he knew the music was Chopin.

He tried to relax, and instead focus on the music, wondering what would come next and if he would know it. He wondered at the end of it all, if he could ask the teacher for his playlist and finally learn the names of the pieces he knew by sound by not by title.

…

It had been the week before first semester break when Damen had invited him on a camping trip. Laurent had said yes without even thinking, even though he had never been camping in his life. It was only for a night, and just an hour out of the city to where Damen’s uncle owned a small plot of land. Nothing fancy, nothing long term, just the two of them, spending a night under the stars in the tray of Damen’s ute.

A week later Damen picked Laurent up after a night of restless sleep.

He slept during the car ride with Damen giving in to his request to listen to the classical music station. The sound of soloists and orchestra’s lulling him to sleep.

The spot that Damen drove them to was nothing special, but still so wide and barren that it was hard for Laurent to perceive that they were only an hour away from the city he had never left. They spend the afternoon building a fire and walking the property.

As the sun set they cooked various food over the fire on long metal skewers. They ate bread and sausages while they left potatoes wrapped in alfoil to cook in the coals. As the night air cooled, they moved to the back of Damen’s ute, wrapping themselves in blankets and taking the soft and hot potatoes with them like a sweet treat.

They laughed as they slathered butter over their hot treat, neither of them acknowledging how they slowly moved closer and closer to one another. By the time they had finished their meals, they were pressed together shoulder to shoulder, their butter slicked hands wrapped around shared blankets.

They were talking about the stars, much brighter and mesmerising than in the city, when Laurent took a chance. It was small, he let his head rest on Damen’s shoulder. Damen responded seconds later by wrapping an arm around Laurent’s waist, never faltering in his explanation of the constellations.

When Laurent asked where his star sign was, Damen pulled him closer and whispered that it wasn’t visible at that time of year. When Laurent whispered in Damen’s ear, he said kiss me, and Damen did.

It was soft, just a press with the barest hint of pressure behind him. When Laurent whispered, ‘again’ Damen responded with another gentle kiss, a touch harder but still soft and easy.

Laurent thought it would be easy from there, and for a while it was. The next time they kissed, Damen unravelled his hand from the blankets and cupped Laurent’s jaw gently but firmly. As Damen massaged Laurent’s bottom lip with his tongue in gentle pressure, Laurent thought back to the day they had run into each other so many months ago.

He thought of Damen’s hand, resting on his shoulder, and his desperate need for touch. Now he had Damen’s hand gently cupping his face, his thumb softly stroking his cheek, and the yearning he felt was the same.

He wanted to scream _‘Touch me, touch me, touch me!’_. Damen’s hands were on him, with their lips pressing and seeking each other, yet Laurent yearned for more like the touch wasn’t there at all.

In time they lay down, the movement as slow and as easy as their gently kissing. When Damen moved closer, Laurent let him. When Damen rubbed up against his leg, Laurent moved so that their legs were inter-twined, pushing their bodies even closer together. When Damen’s hand moved from cupping his jaw to slid down his neck, Laurent moved so that his neck was stretched and open, easier for Damen to access, and easier for him to feel the way Damen stroked his skin.

Laurent let himself forget. He let himself focus on Damen’s strong legs, pressed between his. He let himself feel the way Damen kissed him with more and more pressure. He felt Damen press into his mouth and lick the roof of his mouth so softly and slowly he was unable to stop the jolt that ran through his body.

It ended suddenly though, when Damen lifted the hem of his shirt, and rubbed his thumb along the smooth, unscarred surface of his stomach.

“Don’t,” Laurent had said, pulling away so suddenly that Damen’s teeth had caught at his bottom lip.

Damen looked surprise, then confused and when he had drawn away, giving Laurent space, he had looked sad.

“Okay,” Damen had said, pulling away further.

The gap, as small as it was, let in the cold night air. Laurent shivered from the night and from the lack of the warmth of another human body he had had moments before.

“I’m… I’ m just not ready,” Lauren said, yearning to close the distance once again.

“Okay,” Damen said again.

Laurent had rolled away, so he would not have to see the look on Damen’s face.

“Hold me,” he had said, and Damen had, shuffling over on their make shift bed.

Damen had pressed him close, wrapping his arm around Laurent’s waist and pressing his face into his neck.

“Is this okay?” Damen said, before pressing a soft but lingering kiss to the back of his neck.

“Perfect,” he said, moving to rest his hand over Damen’s.

“Okay,” Damen said one more time before they fell asleep.

In the morning they didn’t talk about it. They acted like they had always acted around one another. They made breakfast, the laughed and talked, and then they packed up and headed back.

Not one word was said about the previous night, and Laurent wondered if what he had with Damen was just another guillotine waiting to fall.

…

His outstretched leg was shaking and threatening to cramp, the arm holding him upright was somewhere between agony and numbness. Yet, he held the pose for the full forty-five minutes. He never opened his eyes and instead tried to think of anything that would distract him from the pain in his body.

He focused on the music, trying to place pieces and composers, he focused on the scratch of pencil and the occasional whispers between people. Most of the time, he thought about Damen.

He thought about how just a week ago they had been lying in the back of his ute, kissing softly. He thought about Damen’s hands and his smile and his hair. He thought about how he had not seen Damen since and how he had made up excuses every time Damen tried to catch up. He thought that maybe, if he wasn’t careful, he would lose Damen.

The day of their return, Laurent had seen the ad in the newspaper.

Vannes had called it archaic and lacking in detail, even while she looked through a newsfeed filled with clickbait and gossip. Laurent scoffed along with her but memorised the details anyway. Six days later, he was still surprised that he found himself naked in a room full of strangers.

When the call came that the forty-five minutes were up, Laurent sagged gratefully on his stool. He looked around him as he rubbed feeling back into his arm and jiggled his leg up and down trying to accomplish the same. Once again, no one spared a glance at him as the people who had been intently staring at him seconds ago started to pack up their belongings. They chatted with each other and compared drawings, but not a single person looked his way as he slowly stood from the chair.

He put his robe back on and since he had no other instructions, he went back to the small room that held his belongings and changed back into his clothes. He did grimace slightly about putting back on what was in his mind used underwear, but overall, he was surprised at how good he felt.

By the time he had finished changing and walked back out into the studio most of the people had left. There were a few people still standing around and talking, most of those were in the small kitchen, eating whatever was left over from the earlier break. Looking around, Laurent found Herode and the other two models in conversation.

Joining them, Laurent received ninety dollars in cash.

“A good turn out tonight hey?” one of the models said to him with a wink.

She walked away as did the other model while Laurent lingered to properly put away his money and get himself organised.

“Laurent was it?” Herode said.

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to come back semi-regularly? The turnover in this class is high since most are just here as a hobby or students. You are… quite unique, if you don’t mind me saying, and you have excellent muscle definition.”

“Um… thank you?”

Herode laughed at that and moved to pick up his own sketch pad, handing it over to Laurent.

“You even had me struggling for a bit, but I think it’s good for the students to see every body type. It gives them a lesson not just in art, but in life.”

Herode’s drawing of him was over his first ten-minute pose, the lines of his back and shoulder were drawn in perfect detail, and so were the lines of his scars. Laurent for the first time, thought of his scars as beautiful, because that was the only way to describe the talent he saw sketched out on the page.

“I wouldn’t mind coming back,” Laurent said, his voice soft as his eyes took in the lines of Herode’s drawing.

“I’ll be in touch, no pressure of course, I’ll just message you, or email if you prefer, if I have an open spot.”

“Thank you,” Laurent said, handing back the sketchbook.

“No worries,” the older man said with a smile. He turned away and was busy packing up his materials when Laurent spoke again.

“By that way, do you have a Spotify list for the classes.”

…

“There you are you fuck!” Vannes yelled over the music.

Laurent had been waiting at the train station when he had received a text from Vannes.

_‘Impromptu part at Niks get yo arse here stat, lover boy is here, bring vodka, ima broke cunt’_

Still feeling light and happy, Laurent changed platforms so that he could catch the line that led to Nik’s house. Upon arriving he managed to make it to the botte shop just before it closed to buy a bottle of vodka.

Vannes had met him the moment he walked in and was quick to pull him aside.

“You look smug,” she said whilst pulling the sleeves of his jacket.

“You’ll never guess what I did tonight.”

“Something devious?” Vannes said, wagging her eyebrows up and down.

“Depends who you talk to I suppose.”

“I want all the details.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” he said, pulling the bottle of vodka from his bag. “Where’s Damen? I need to speak to him.”

“Under the house moping,” Vannes said, cracking the top off the bottle immediately. “I think you broke him, whatever you did.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Laurent moved away and made his way under the house. He had been to Nik’s only twice, but he knew his way around well enough. Under the old styled house there was the laundry, a spare and barely used bathroom and random pieces of furniture left behind and abandoned by those who had lived in the shared accommodation over the years.

Damen was sitting alone on an old couch with a beer bottle in his hand when Laurent found him.

“Hello,” Laurent said, moving to stand next to the couch.

“There you are,” Damen said, visibly brightening. “I didn’t know if you would come. Late notice and all, and you’ve been busy the past week.”

“Want to play a game?” Laurent said, holding out his hand.

“With you?” Damen said standing and taking his hand, “Always.”

Laurent led him into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind them.

“I hate to sound like a cliché, but I like where this is going,” Damen said with a smile.

Laurent just smiled and led them over to the vanity until his back was pushed up against the sink.

“I need you to close your eyes and promise not to open them until I say it’s okay,” Laurent said. He was trying for serious, but he couldn’t help the smirk on his face.

“This just keeps getting better,” Damen said as he closed his eyes.

Laurent stood for a moment, watching Damen, making sure he kept his eyes shut, even as the silence lingered on. When he was happy with Damen, he pushed himself up to sit on the vanity, bringing Damen and him almost eye to eye.

He waited again, making sure that Damen stayed still with is eyes shut. It must have been a full three minutes before Laurent was happy.

His heart leap for a second when he pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it to the floor. He thought for a moment that he would back down, but he didn’t, he couldn’t, and his heart rate remained steady.

If he could stand in a room full of strangers, he could do this.

“Hold out your hand,” Laurent said, and Damen immediately complied.

Laurent took the offered hand and led it to the old and faded scars on his elbows. They were faded and less noticeable than when he was younger, but he could still guide the tips of Damen’s finger’s over them. Slowly, he moved Damen’s hands over the map of his scars.

Damen smiled with him as he told some of the more embarrassing stories. When he pressed Damen’s thumb to the scar on his lip, he could feel the jump in heart rate through his fingertips that rested on Damen’s wrist. When he moved to the scars on his knuckles, Damen laughed. Not at Laurent’s pain, but at the story of Auguste panicking over the injury he had caused.

When Laurent had finished with his old scars, he moved Damen’s hand up to his hairline, guiding his fingers gently over the scar that was invisible to the eye. He gave no explanation this time, instead letting the silence hang as Damen’s fingers traced the old wound.

Damen was no longer smiling, and instead there was a crease in his brow. Laurent wondered if it was from confusion or concern. He would find out though, because from there he guided Damen’s hand to rest on his flank, locking their fingers together. He still refused an explanation as he gently guided Damen’s hand up until it connected with aged scars.

Damen took in a sharp breath and his face twisted into a frown. Laurent let his hand drop away, but Damen kept his hand steady on his side. His hand didn’t move, but his fingers did, Laurent could mutely feel the way his hand spread out, his fingertips gently searching out across scarred skin.

“You can open your eyes,” Laurent said, staring straight forward, waiting to catch Damen’s gaze.

When Damen opened his eyes, he was looking straight ahead.

“Can I?” Damen said, not breaking eye contact.

Laurent nodded, knowing what Damen was truly asking. Without moving his gaze, Damen’s hand moved along Laurent’s side, following the path of his scars. His large hands sliding gently across his body. When he had traced the worst of his scars, he started over from the beginning, but this time over he was more curious, his fingers reaching out gently to find the edge of his scars and trace along them.

“What do you think?” Laurent said.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Damen said in a whisper.

Laurent closed his eyes and lent forward to press his forehead to Damen’s.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he said, whispering to match Damen.

“I know,” Damen said.

Damen stopped his exploration and instead brought his arms together around Laurent’s body and pulled him close. Laurent let his head fall to Damen’s shoulder as he lifted his own arms up to wrap around Damen.

“You’re not scared?” Laurent said, his words muffled as his lips pressed against Damen’s shoulder.

“A little,” Damen said, but he followed his words with a short laugh. “It’s always scary heading into something knew, but I wouldn’t have played this game with you for so long if I wasn’t willing to face that.”

Laurent didn’t think he could pull him any closer, but he managed and even used the advantage he was at to wrap his legs around Damen’s waist.

“I have so much to tell you.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, I haven't been to a life drawing class in years, but if any of my readers know of an affordable one in Brisbane (I've made no secret of where I live), let me know!


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